


archaic kinds of fun (the old way)

by ashers_kiss



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Oral Sex, details in the notes, possible dubcon issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1335439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are neither of them <i>delicate</i>, giving as much as they can and taking more, until Sif grabs a handful of his hair and <i>demands</i> it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	archaic kinds of fun (the old way)

**Author's Note:**

> I've had so many fics about these two living in my head since the film, I'm amazed that this is the first one make it out somewhat coherently (and as it is, this one could have gone at _least_ three different ways). O.o
> 
> Unbeta'd (because none of my friends like them; what is wrong with the people I know?), and first fic with the two of them. So it's probably awful and I wouldn't blame anyone for stopping here.
> 
> Warning for possible dubcon issues; spoilery details can be found in the endnotes.
> 
> Title from [Glory and Gore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sa6YhRiMmsI) by Lorde (because it is very, very them).

She had always liked his hands; they were never gentle with her – those who were often found themselves quite literally thrown from her bed – but grasping, holding on too tightly as nails dug into flesh, leaving marks. They’re cool, now, cradling her hips as they kiss, thumbs pressing almost too hard.

“You’re late,” Sif murmurs against his mouth, and she can feel his smirk. She tangles a hand in his hair and pulls until he arches back, hissing. “Don’t do it again.”

“Perish the thought,” he says. There is still that curve to his lips, that light in his eyes, but Sif knows him better than even he would believe. Everything about him, from the tilt of his jaw to the line of his shoulders as he hovers over her, tells her she could do whatever she wished, and he would obey her every word.

She flattens her hand against his skull and pushes him back down to her with a smile of her own, one she has used to send her enemies running. “Make sure of it,” she says, before she sinks her teeth into his bottom lip. The noise he makes, breathy and high, cut off before it even fully forms, thrills through her to pool in her belly. Her toes curl, and before she thinks it through, she hooks her ankle over his leg and tugs, destroying his balance so he lands on top of her. Exactly where she wants him.

Well. Almost.

They have done this often enough that Sif doesn’t need to instruct him (though she does, because more often than not it is her words that undo him, leave him panting against her skin, and she is not such a liar that she won’t admit to relishing the power); he knows where to touch, how to curl those long fingers to make her moan, and she knows exactly how he will respond to nails raked down his back, flawless rhythm faltering ever so slightly. She has him make good use of that talented mouth, hand buried in his hair and leg draped across his back (always so careful not to suffocate him, tempting though it sometimes may be, because then she will remember that one incident in training so many years ago, and he does sulk something awful when she laughs), and afterwards she tugs him up to kiss him, licks the taste of her own juices from his mouth. She does it every time – there’s something obscenely decadent about the way his mouth shines that she refuses to resist, not here; something that makes her flush hot as if he hadn’t just wrung every drop of pleasure from her – and still he seems surprised by it.

But then he makes more of those breathy little noises into her mouth, insistent, his grip on her waist spasming as he rocks against her thigh, and it is entirely possible that Sif does what she does deliberately, in order to elicit this reaction.

She breaks the kiss and wraps her hand around his cock; the whine that escapes him is the loudest he’s been so far. “Are you waiting for an invitation?” She lifts an eyebrow, and her chin, even as lingering sparks still shock through every part of her. It is a challenge, a deliberate one, because that is what they do, what they have always done, and he laughs, tips his head in a way that means, “As you wish,” that he is clever enough not to voice while she has hold of such delicate appendages. Sif smiles and runs her thumb over the head of his cock, rubbing at one particularly sensitive spot. She enjoys his shudder more than she possibly should.

There is a notion, somewhere in the back of her mind that niggles at her, that she should be…softer. Delicate. She frowns, because these cannot be her thoughts, and she opens her mouth to demand answers – a fact which he takes full advantage of, kissing her as he enters, and Sif arches, lets him swallow her own noises.

They could do this until the Ragnarok and it would feel like the first time, every time. When they worked their way free of yet another banquet and she shoved him against a wall, rough and inelegant, the idea of being _caught_ only adding to the thud of her pulse in her ears. They are neither of them _delicate_ , giving as much as they can and taking more, until Sif grabs a handful of his hair and _demands_ it. He sets his teeth into her throat in retaliation (but more likely because it makes her moan, makes her thrash and buck and fight him for every thrust; she can feel the sharp edge of his grin against her skin).

Sif comes again, and how could she not, with such clever fingers working her so well – no one could ever describe him as _selfish_ in this manner; he enjoys the reactions he creates far too much for that. But she makes sure, when she comes back to herself from the shattered, dizzying rush, that he is not far behind her, with her lips against his ear, whispering things that would still make her blush outside of this room, and a hand curled over the most sensitive skin. The barest touch, and he is hers, silent, shaking apart in her arms with his face pressed against her throat.

A moment of weakness, and Sif finds herself running fingers through his hair, smoothing tangles she herself put there. There is something…calming about it, she will admit (if only ever to herself), even if part of her is already thinking again, conscious that she will have to wash soon. His breathing slows, and still he doesn’t move. It should be disconcerting, Sif thinks, though she cannot bring herself to mind overly much. Clearly, she has not quite regained her full abilities – and neither has he, or he would not be trailing patterns which feel like runes across her skin, tracing over old scars, and being altogether entirely _distracting_. More often than not, he is already gone by now, slipped from her bed and her chamber while her mind is still addled.

She should send him on his way, she knows this. But something settles within her, something from deep within that nagging corner of her mind, and she cannot quite force herself to. Not yet. Later, she thinks. When she is sticky and stiff and in need of nothing more than a long, hot bath to ease her, ignoring whatever comments he may make about joining her as she shoves him out her door. If he’s lucky, she will send his clothes with him.

But until then. Until then, this is…not unpleasant. Almost surprisingly so.

*

Sif wakes alone, as she knew she would. Her body aches, trapped in the sheets she managed to wrap around herself during the night. She can only curse the fact that her dreams are getting more vivid as she tries to untangle herself.

Because that is all they are. Dreams. Remnants of something long ended. Because Loki is…gone, truly gone, which is the only reason she isn’t currently sitting in a cell listening to Volstagg and Fandral bicker about whose fault _exactly_ it is that they are there in the first place. It means _nothing_. Sif knows that, and she refuses to dwell on it. The realm is her priority; it has to be, or the damages done by Malekith’s forces will never be mended. (Admittedly, she was…somewhat surprised when Odin placed her in charge of the repairs. But things are different now, with Thor’s new absence, and she needs something, something solid to focus her energies on. And perhaps Odin saw that. Then again, she would not be surprised to learn he simply wanted her out of the way.)

She lies there until the pink of pre-dawn creeps into her room, until she can hear the sounds of Asgard stirring. There is still work to be done on the outer defences (a difficult task, with Heimdall still imprisoned; apparently her brother’s treason was deemed more heinous than hers, and her requests to speak to the king on the matter have all been refused), and she is _determined_ to strengthen the palace’s inner safeguards. She will not have Thor return to the same realm as he left, still ruined from too long basking in its own confidence. It is long work, slow to start (people are so _stubborn_ about change, as if they had not so recently had the greatest incentive) and she often doesn’t return to her rooms until long after night has fallen. But she relishes it.

And if she brushes over a phantom ache at her throat before rising, then it is no one’s business but her own.

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding the possible dubcon issues: considering the end of the film, this could be interpreted either of two ways. It could be viewed as a simple, if very vivid dream, or as something Loki orchestrated.
> 
> It really could go either way; I deliberately didn't define it, because I couldn't decide myself. But I feel it's important to note that if Sif _did_ know, she'd be fully consenting in every single way. She might just take the opportunity to smack him about the head some more, too. ;)


End file.
